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Alfa 3d
How do you make your rice?
is it in a ***? a pan? steamed? heated? not at all?

mine is in a frying ***.

Yellow, with pollo from the fresh market.
Peas, y frijoles on the side.

Mix it up, eat it, keep it for later.

Burn the bottom so you can get la chemada part.

If you like the chemada part, not everyone does.
A poem about my personal views on American society. How a bunch of different cultures live together which is why I make references to rice, as different types of rice making shows what culture you come from. I say I like mine in a "frying ***" because that's how I see America, a frying *** and not a "melting ***" as they say. Whereas a melting *** mixes cultures well, a frying *** keeps people at the bottom "burnt" like "chemada" (burnt rice at the bottom of the pan).
I've lost you in the ambiguity of my words
The puns and metaphors
Tring to figure out my speech
The parts of you that were lost in translation

How can I piece together
A sentence that starts with you
And ends with us?
The words elude me like a deer a lion

I am at sixes and sevens..
Trying to define homophones
Twice this weak.

Logic walked away from me
On the eve of my flight
A flown fool filled with fuel of
Rage
Hate maybe.

Burning all that personified
The meaning of you
While
The truth of the irony is that,
You are all I write about.
A  lady  stares  blankly  ahead:
Ignoring  everything  in  her  stead,
Inhaling  the  adulterated  room  air,
Taciturn,  stiff,  certain,  or  maybe  scared.

Still  as  a  rock  –
Calm  as  a  lake  –
Strong  as  a  dock  –
But  those  are  all  fake.

Inside  her,  a  war  is  waging.
Beasts,  monsters,  and  heroes  –
all  fighting.

For  the  longest  time,
Her  mind  has  been  running  wild.
Her clock  is  ticking
Yet  no  one  is  winning.

Not  one  bloc  is  determined  to  fall
Because  all  she  does  is  feed  them  all.

/pc
Emerson Sep 29
Once upon a time

In class
I was told
To write
A story
It was
"A simple task"
As my teacher put it
It should be easy
But
I did not write
Not a word.
Not a letter.
Nothing.
My teacher glared
And everyone stared
My heart pounded
My fists clenched
My teacher asked
For me to stand
And explain myself
To everyone
(But how do you 'explain yourself?')
So I stood up
And explained myself
To everyone
I said
"That is a piece of paper.
It has a story.
One day
It can be used.
Or abused.
Or created into something new.
It can be used for art
To plan something
To inspire someone
To write something evil on
To write something kind on
It has a story."

The end.
This is not a true story
Just based on a book I read
just because i'm speechless
doesn't mean i don't know how i feel
it's just that i can't put it in words
for you to understand
my broken english
i don't know, i just
i mean its
sometimes i wish
i never meant for it
to happen
y'know?
of course you don't
you never do
how do you feel?
Anya Sep 24
I used to wonder if,
one who enjoys writing
and history
stories
and words
Is bad,
at math and science

I'm finding recently,
that it's really not true

Sure,
science may not be my strongest
subject

But I can take what is,
English
and use it to my advantage

I realized
I could make educational poetry
Funny
fun
strange
analogies
from the concepts
to the stories I love

And that way I remember them better

The world really is a small place
Not just,
among people
But also,
Among concepts,
ideas
Reoccurring patterns
...
Everywhere!
jaelyn lance Sep 20
A
-A
B
-B
C
-C
D
Grades drop,
I've never been the one to drop
To give up
But this is terrible
And it hurts the most,
When it's a class you try
and are good at.

It stings
It hurts
Freshman year is rough
Scratch that it *****,

I scream in my head
And search for where I flawed
I need hope
Motivation
Something
Anything
Because school *****
Uhhhhhh
Lily Sep 18
Yes, math is important.
No, I’m not denying that.
Yet, you, my teacher,
My instructor, guide, mentor
Do not need to act this way.
You say that if I can’t do this math,
I will never be successful in any career.
You said that if I can’t understand
Something as “simple” as this,
I will never make it in the real world.
Don’t deny that you said those words,
Because the whole class heard you.
What about my English, my writing,
The things I will never, in a million years,
Work with math for?
Are you telling me I’m going to fail in that?
It’s just an B- in your class, it’s not
The end of the world.
Maybe I don’t learn the way you’re teaching,
Maybe I need to do things differently,
Maybe I’m struggling with things at home.
Maybe I could say that your math is as
Pointless as you say my writing is.
I do not mean to offend anybody, I'm just frustrated.
Madison Sep 20
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim

The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless

The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind

We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"

Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass

They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft

When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds

Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards

Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our *** we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight

In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer

One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door

We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp

On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp

When we were saved from ****
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs

The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences

Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
This poem is dedicated to the Jews that suffered from the holocaust
David Abraham Sep 11
<<FRANÇAIS>>

J'entends seul les mots des chaisons,
et je vois seul les mots des livres.
Les mots sont beux et grands !

Je me remplis avec ces mots,
et en ces mots je vais s'évader !


<<ESPAÑOL>>

Escucho solo las palabras de la música,
y veo solo las palabras de los libros.
¡Las palabras estan bellas y grande!

Me lleno com las palabras,
y en las palabras me escaparé !


<<ENGLISH>>

I hear these words in music,
I see these words in books.
The words are beautiful and great!

I fill myself with words,
and in these words I am going to escape!
0022 9/11/2018
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